Waverly's Betrayal
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: More Pendleton angst about the moment when Treavor realizes just how much he hates Waverly Boyle.


_**A/N: **I was in a really black mood when I wrote this, and it got a little out of hand (and longer than I'd originally anticipated). Poor Pendybubbles ;( _

_Also published on my AO3 and Tumblr accounts._

* * *

Treavor Pendleton stared down at the fashionable cameo, nestled in its rich velvet box. It was rather large, carved from coral and ivory, and fastened on a delicate embroidered choker. He had bought it from one of the more expensive jewellery stores in Draper's Ward after spotting it in a glass cabinet – and realizing that the exquisite rose motif reminded him of Waverly Boyle.

There was a polite knock on the door, and he quickly closed the velvet box and set it aside.

"Come in," he called.

Wallace entered, bearing a freshly-brushed frockcoat on a hanger. He inclined his head. "Are you ready to finish dressing, Lord Treavor?" he asked.

The youngest Pendleton moved over the full-length mirror beside his wardrobe and held out his arms expectantly. "Yes," he sighed.

Wallace helped the lordling into the coat, smoothing it over his narrow shoulders and straightening the cuffs. "It is an exquisite color, m'lord," he remarked as he picked up a clothesbrush and began sweeping it over Treavor's sleeves. "Very mature." He cleared his throat and continued, a little more slowly: "Something your father would wear, I'm sure."

Treavor sniffed tartly. Lord Pendleton was upstairs, bedridden. Nobody expected him to last much longer. He'd been in a steady decline since his second wife had died two years earlier but in the last few weeks his condition had deteriorated significantly. He stayed in his chambers; doctors were in and out of his room all day; Morgan and Custis attended Parliament in his stead. Treavor dreaded the moment when Father's valet would find him, stiff and cold and incredibly dead, and then the mantle of _Lord of Pendleton Manor_ would pass to the twins and he would be entirely at their mercy in the big, cold manor.

He shook the thoughts from his head. "I'm not a _child_ anymore," he replied, a little tersely. "I need to start dressing as such."

"Yes, m'lord. Of course." Was there the slightest streak of amusement in the manservant's words? It was hard to tell. He gently straightened his master's collar and adjusted the glittering pin adorning his cravat.

Treavor batted Wallace's hands away and inspected his reflection. He was dressed in a new ensemble, rich burgundy and charcoal grey. It contrasted nicely with his pale features, making them sharper and stronger. His lips curled with a faint smirk as he caught sight of Wallace, standing at a respectful distance and glancing at his reflection with something resembling pride in his eyes.

"Is that Lady Waverly's gift, m'lord?" Wallace asked, gesturing to the velvet box on the dressing table.

Treavor snatched the box up and held it tightly in his hands. He slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat and gave its hard form a cursory pat. "Yes," he answered. He wet his lips and turned to Wallace, brow furrowing. "Do you… do you think she'll like it?"

"I do, m'lord. It's very special." Wallace smiled. "I'm sure she'll be very pleased that you thought to give her something so lovely."

Treavor swiped his hands, suddenly clammy with cold sweat, on his thighs. "I hope you're right," he replied, hating how his voice cracked.

He glanced at his reflection once more, and scowled. He was fifteen, straddling the strange cusp between being a teenager and a young adult. Puberty had not been kind to Treavor thus far. Granted his skin had not suffered, not like the twins who had been plagued with spots, but sometimes he wondered if he wouldn't have preferred a few bad bouts of acne as opposed to the strange growth spurts that left him gangly and awkward.

Over the last couple of years he had grown taller, though the rest of him hadn't filled in. When Morgan and Custis had hit sixteen, almost overnight, their shoulders and chests had broadened and grown strong with muscle. They had become _men. _In contrast, Treavor remained skinny and lean whilst he grew out of his riding breeches, his mourning suit, his favourite frockcoat. He was all too-long limbs and knobby joints and washed-out features that made him seem _years_ older than he actually was.

Looking his reflection up and down, he noticed how his legs, encased in fine silk hose, looked particularly weedy. He wondered if he should ask Wallace to put out full trousers and boots instead. His fingers pulled at his cravat, suddenly too tight around his thin neck with its protruding Adam's apple. "Wallace do I- do I _look_ alright?" he asked, slowly.

The manservant inclined his head. "You look very distinguished, Lord Treavor," he replied smoothly. "Very impressive."

Wallace never used words like _handsome_ to describe his master – and that was alright. Treavor knew it would be a lie, and he didn't want Wallace lying to him. He knew he wasn't handsome, and he never would be. He was pale and thin, with a too-big forehead and sunken eyes. Those things he would never grow out of as he got older, and he had accepted that long ago. But being _distinguished_ and _impressive_…

He rather liked that.

He cleared his throat and smoothed a hand against his hair, neatly slicked back with pomade. His voice had deepened somewhat over the last year or so, but it was nasally. Sometimes it cracked, reverting back to that boyish squeak that had been the subject of the twins' merciless teasing. He forced his voice to be strong and level as he said, "Thank you, Wallace. Has Waverly arrived yet? If so, well, I'll go down and see her."

"Of course, m'lord. I believe she is in the gardens with her sisters."

* * *

Whereas puberty had not been particularly kind to Treavor Pendleton, it had done wonders for Waverly Boyle. She had blossomed. The feline definition of her chin and cheeks as the innocent roundness of youth disappeared was enticing, as was the curve of her breasts and waist beneath her clothes. She enchanted everyone around her with her accomplished existence: politics, history, music, polite chit-chat – none of it was beyond her capabilities. The lilt of her voice had turned breathy, sultry. _Seductive_. And she did seduce those around her with a practiced smile and elegant gesturing.

Treavor watched her from across the garden path. The cameo was heavy in his pocket, threatening to drag him down to the neatly-cut grass. He reached up to feel its form, as though to reassure himself.

He needed to get Waverly alone, but she was with a whole group of guests – men and women, mostly acquaintances of the twins, who had come to Pendleton Manor for a small gathering now that the colder months were over and it was once again pleasant to be outside. A part of him thought that it was unseemly to throw such a lavish affair in light of Father's illness, but Morgan and Custis practically _ran _Pendleton Hall now, and nobody seemed to mind.

Or they were too scared to voice their concerns.

Treavor was going to marry Waverly, he had decided. He'd planned it all out: he would continue to court her until he was eighteen and came into his portion of the family fortune, and then he would propose. They would be married in the Month of Songs, he'd decided, so that they could quickly begin the New Year as husband and wife. After the Fugue Feast, he would take her down to Serkonos for their honeymoon and finally – _finally_ – he would be happy.

He would be happy because he _deserved_ to be, despite what everybody else – despite what the _twins_ – said.

He continued to watch her and rehearsed what he wanted to say over and over in his mind:

_Waverly, we've known each other for two years now–_

_Waverly, I hope I'm not being too forward–_

_Waverly, you make me feel like I'm not so useless or pathetic–_

_Waverly, Waverly, Waverly. _It was a chant, a litany, a prayer, that echoed in his mind and hummed in his heart.

Partygoers passed him with polite smiles and murmured greetings; Treavor responded in kind. Suddenly self-conscious, he reached up to straighten his cravat. His collar felt too tight, choking him and pressing down into his pulse. He whimpered and took a deep breath, willing the frantic beating of his heart to slow to something less panicked.

Upstairs, Wallace had reassured him.

He would be fine.

When Waverly was alone, having flitted away from a large group to cross the gardens to the manor house, he took his chance. She moved with such grace! The awkward, clumsy motion of his limbs made him feel unworthy. He trailed her up the wide steps leading from the garden towards the tall doors that had been thrown open wide, inviting guests to pass seamlessly between the beauty of the estate grounds and the splendour of Pendleton Hall.

In the dim evening light, her beauty was otherworldly. Soft shadows stretched from beneath her delicate chin, the side of her sweet nose, along her cheekbones. Her blonde hair seemed to glow with the light of all the whale oil lamps and paper lanterns that were strewn about.

"Waverly!" he called, a little breathlessly.

She paused and turned. When she saw him, her pink lips curled. "Good evening, Treavor," she purred.

He smiled, dreamily. "You look- beautiful," he breathed.

She tittered and cocked her head. "You're too kind," she replied, as she had been taught to.

He swallowed hard. "I was waiting to-to get you alone," he said, hating the faint stammer in his voice. He cleared his throat, a little loudly, and ascended another step, putting them on the same level.

She quirked a brow. "Oh?"

"Yes." Steeling himself, he reached for her hand. It was slender and cold. He curled his fingers around her wrist, pressing his thumb into the twitch of her pulse. For once, he was grateful he didn't have the rough hands and large fingers of his brothers; they would be ugly next to her delicacy. "I was hoping to talk to you later, maybe when things get a little quieter–"

She laughed, and that made him uneasy. "Perhaps," she said. "I'm going to be very busy tonight. I do love dancing."

He pushed past his anxiety. "Would you like to dance, then? With me?" he asked hopefully.

She extricated her hand from his – it was a smooth, gentle motion, but she might as well have wrenched her entire arm away from him in one violent jerk. "With _you_?" she cooed. "Well, I suppose. I've had quite a few requests to dance tonight, you know. I'll try and find room for you in my list."

He struggled against a frown, willing the smile to remain on his lips. He could feel how tight it had become. Tight and forced and _painful_. "Yes, alright. I would like that." He curled his hand into a fist at his side. "Thank you."

Her smile was a little less sweet than he would have liked. It felt condescending and mocking. "Then find me inside later on," she said, "and I'll dance with you." Her nose wrinkled with a chuckle. "I _do_ hope you've improved since the last time we danced, Treavor. My toes took a _month_ to recover."

He blushed, hotly, and couldn't bring himself to say anything in reply.

And then he watched, horrified, as Morgan approached from the manor, a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. His eyes, glittering with something feral, rested on Treavor's face and he smirked darkly. "Waverly, I do hope you're not going to keep me waiting all night because of _Treavor_?" he drawled, and he threw back his head to drain his drink and smashed the glass on the wide paving stones. He was drunk, and it made Treavor flinch.

Waverly, somehow, managed to find the whole thing very charming. She turned to the larger twin, her smile turning into a grin. "Do settle down, Morgan _dear_. He was just asking me for a dance," she replied coyly.

Morgan chuckled. "How _sweet_," he sneered. Then he beckoned her to him with a bend of his index finger, and Treavor watched as she sashayed towards him, slipped her hand – that cold, slender hand that had been in _his_ not two minutes ago – into the crook of Morgan's elbow, and let him lead her inside.

Over his shoulder, Morgan threw his younger brother a smug, cold glance.

Treavor felt something crumple and twist inside his chest, and he turned from the manor with a despairing slump of his shoulders.

* * *

The youngest Pendleton stood on the sidelines in the great marbled hall and watched as Waverly passed between various partners. First Morgan, then someone else, then another, and another… The hall was filled with what felt like a hundred people but all he could focus on was _Waverly_. His whole world had collapsed to the sight of her, swaying and twirling between the other dancing couples, and with each second that she did not come up to him and accept his invitation to dance, he felt fractures begin to grow in that narrowed world, threatening to shatter it entirely.

He drank sweet Serkonan effervescent wine when he caught sight of the delicate crystal flutes balanced precariously on trays of Pendleton silver. He tried to eat delicate canapés when they were offered to him, but there was a horrible thickening of his throat that made him feel as if he was suffocating and choking.

He pushed himself out of the throng of bodies – too many bodies, too many people he didn't recognize, too many people blocking him from Waverly – and moved towards one of the banquet tables in the dining hall. There was rich red wine from Tyvia; he asked one of the maids to pour him a glass, and he downed it in two mouthfuls. The alcohol burned at the back of his throat and he distantly recalled Father, or perhaps one of the twins, saying something about rich wines needing to be _breathed_ before they were ready to be tasted.

He made a snappish remark to the maid about the unpalatable state of the wine and added, a little abrasively, "Do you even know what you're doing?"

Feeling rather nauseous, and a little anxious, he followed the music back to the main marbled hall, with its gilded ceiling and high, arched windows. He looked for Waverly but couldn't find her. Esma Boyle was standing to the side, making eyes at passing gentlemen.

Treavor swallowed and crossed to Esma. She was in her early twenties, heavily made-up, and reminded him of the Cat girls that the twins often talked about. "Good evening, Esma," he said, inclining his head.

She turned her head and smiled sultrily at him. "Well, _darling_ Treavor," she purred, "good evening."

She was wearing too much perfume and it irritated his nose. He twisted his lips and forced a bored note into his voice, but it came out shaking as he said, "I-I'm looking for Waverly. Do you know where she is?"

Esma hummed, craning her head to stare over the heads of the guests. "Last I saw she was dancing but it seems she's snuck off somewhere – _naughty _girl," she replied with a small chuckle.

He clenched his jaw, curling his fingers into fists. "Yes, but do you know _where_?" he asked.

"She went to the library," Morgan said, slotting himself beside Esma with a wolfish grin, "with Custis. Now piss off, you little twerp, and let the _adults_ have some fun."

Esma giggled coyly at that.

Treavor blushed and then felt the blood drain out of his face.

_With Custis_.

He raced from the hall, jostling and pushing past guests, ignoring their indignant cries. The library was upstairs and he scrambled up the wide staircase, taking them two at a time. The hall was dark – a sign to guests that the upper floors of the manor were off-limits. Treavor inched along, trying to get his labored breathing under control. It was hard: first Morgan danced with Waverly and now Custis had whisked her upstairs to the library – away from prying eyes.

_What about _me_?_ he thought with a bitter twist of his lips.

He paused, leaning against the wall, and worked Waverly's gift out of the inner pocket of his coat. He opened the velvet box and traced his finger over the smooth cameo. Perhaps Morgan had been lying. Perhaps Custis was just showing her around. Perhaps she was playing hard to get – Wallace had warned him that young women were prone to those sorts of games.

Once she saw the cameo, though, she was sure to realize what a terrible mistake she'd made in ignoring him all night.

_Right?_

As he approached the library, he heard laughter: he recognized the rich chuckling of his brother and the breathy giggles of Waverly. He pressed himself against the door – slightly ajar – and peered inside. Someone had lit the fireplace, and the flickering lights threw strange shadows off the furniture, the bookshelves, the large globe standing near the armchairs.

His eyes flicked to the windows, like tall pools of murky water in the dim light of the library. Then, he nudged open the door and slipped inside.

Almost instantly, he wished he hadn't.

On one of the plush sofas near the window seat, Custis and Waverly were stretched out side-by-side. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and she had shucked her exquisite velvet jacket in favour of only a thin silken blouse.

Treavor gulped, his nausea rising in his throat. Thankfully, he didn't vomit. He listened to their conversation, paralyzed with horror:

"How do you know I'm not Morgan?" Custis purred, shifting onto his side and leering down at Waverly. He slotted one of his knees between her legs, and she let him.

She raked her fingers through his short, dark hair. "I know you're not Morgan. I have_ways_ of telling the difference," she cooed in reply.

"Oh?" He bent to nip at her lips. "Do tell, dearest."

She arched beneath his touch. "Morgan," she mewled, "kisses – like an _animal_. He's all teeth. Makes me _bleed_. Esma enjoys that." She looked up at him through her eyelashes. "You're much more of a _gentleman_."

He chuckled darkly. "Oh, you'd be surprised," he breathed. "So, which one of us is your _favourite_? The animal or the gentleman?"

Waverly smirked and curled her fingers over his jaw, drawing his face down to hers for a kiss.

Treavor felt a familiar pressure building behind his eyes. He didn't bother blinking the tears away. He simply let them come, pooling on his lower lids until his vision was blurred. He could feel his features twisting and scrunching, and he quickly bowed his head, letting the sounds of Waverly and Custis kissing and murmuring to one another filled his head.

"What are you _doing_?" he croaked, suddenly, and he _hated_ how obvious his pain was.

Custis' head snapped up. In the dim light of the library, his brow was deep, his eyes heavily shadowed. Waverly turned her face towards the door, and Treavor could see how her lips glistened. His brother looked like a wolfhound, hunched over a fresh kill.

"Little Treavor," Custis purred, smirking, "what are you doing sneaking around in the dark? Is my baby brother a _voyeur_, perhaps?"

"C-Custis," he stammered. Whined. Sobbed. "What are- what are you _doing_?"

"Get out of here, you little _shit_," the elder Pendleton sneered.

He ignored his brother and looked to Waverly. "I-I thought we– you said– you said you would _dance_ with me," he whimpered.

Waverly said nothing in response, but the cold, cruel little smile curling her lips was enough.

* * *

Treavor sat in the ruins of Custis' bedroom. He knew he probably should have run and found somewhere to hide, but it would only prolong the inevitable. If the twins didn't find him _now_, they would stalk him through the manor until they _did_ find him. And he knew his punishment would be double for running away and hiding like a little rat.

He didn't remember leaving the library but he had somehow ended up at the twins' adjoining bedrooms. And the pain and hurt and embarrassment that had wracked him from head to toe as he watched Custis and Waverly together had quickly turned to _anger_ in its purest, most destructive form.

He had let himself into one of the bedrooms – Morgan's, from the hunting trophies hanging on the wall – and he had _screamed_.

He had screamed as he tore the mounted animal heads from the wall, as he ripped the drapes from Morgan's four-poster bed, as he hurled the ornate clock and lanterns on the bedside table through the window. He had howled as he went to Morgan's wardrobe, emptied it of _everything_ – shirts, coats, breeches, neckties – and began to pull at the gold buttons, the fine stitching, the embroidery adorning cuffs and lapels. He had sobbed as he swept Morgan's Pandyssian-wood desk clear, spilling ink and quills and papers everywhere.

Then he had crossed through the door linking the twins' bedrooms and set to work wrecking Custis' things: he took his elder brother's ledgers and scratched at the leather covers and shredded the pages inside. The smaller twin had a lot of collectibles displayed in a large glass cabinet – clockwork eggs and porcelain figurines and expensive statuettes – and Treavor made sure he had destroyed every last one; he didn't even notice he had cut his hand on a sharp shard of glass until, when he went to Custis' wardrobe to throw all of his clothing out the window, he smeared red, thick and sticky, on one of the silken shirts.

Now, he sat in the darkness (he had smashed the bedside lamps and poured oil all over Custis' bed) and waited for the twins to turn in for the night. It was late; the noise of music and conversation from the party down below had faded to a gentle hum. Through the open window, he heard the scrape and rumble of carriages and cars as they ferried party guests away from Pendleton Hall.

No doubt Waverly was with them, her lips red and swollen from where Custis had kissed her – Custis and Morgan _both_.

The thought made Treavor whimper and shudder, and he buried his face in his hands as he wept.

When the door opened and he spied the familiar forms of the twins standing there, silhouetted by lamplight in the hallway, he lifted his head – tear-stained and red and scrunched up. They were chatting, their speech a little slurred with drink, but when they finally turned their eyes upon the room, they paused.

Treavor braced himself, tensing his body against the inevitable violence.

The smaller silhouette – Custis – stepped into his bedroom, hesitantly, as though he couldn't quite believe that it was _his_. His eyes, glittering in the dim light, darted to the broken glass cabinet, to the open window (where a shirt had caught on the latch and now flapped, precariously, in a faint evening breeze), to the shreds of paper littering the floor. A choked noise of disbelief escaped him.

"What the _bloody hell_ did you do, you _fucking _bastard?!" he roared.

Treavor flinched, and then he remembered Waverly sauntering off with Morgan and lying on the sofa with Custis. "I _hate_ you," he hissed, standing (his knees trembled) and clenching his fists at his sides.

Morgan crossed on thunderous footsteps to the door between bedrooms. He threw it open and surveyed the mess. When he turned on his heel, Treavor felt his whole body twitch at just how utterly _murderous_ the larger twin looked.

"You little mongrel," Morgan growled, and he charged, fists raised and teeth flashing with a snarl.

"I _hate you_!" Treavor screamed, even as he danced backwards, seeking an escape. Custis caught him in a tight grip. Treavor twisted in his elder brother's arms, his fear and anger mingling, forming something resembling hysteria. "I _hate you both_! I wish you were _dead_!" he screeched.

Morgan slugged him across the jaw. Treavor's head snapped back, his vision darkening and sparkling. He tasted blood, swallowed and gagged around the bitter metallic taste. He could hear himself screaming, wishing that the twins never existed, wishing they would die, wishing _Waverly_ was dead–

Custis wrestled him to the ground, forcing him onto his stomach, and twisted his arms behind his back.

Treavor shrieked as his shoulders pulled and burned, threatening to pop out of their sockets. He writhed and tried to buck Custis off, but the smaller twin had his knee pressed into Treavor's back, holding him in place with the entirety of his weight.

"You _piece_ of _shit_," Custis hissed. He let go of one of Treavor's arms and fisted his hair, lifting his head at an impossible angle. "I should rub your face in all that broken glass and oil on my bed and _light you on fire_."

"I – _ah!_ – I fucking _hate you_," Treavor whined, his free hand scrabbling on the plush rug, trying to find some purchase, some respite. "_I HATE YOU!_" he repeated, his voice high and thin.

Morgan kicked him in the side, knocking the air from his lungs. His ribs burned – they weren't quite healed from when they had pushed him down the stairs a few weeks earlier – and he whimpered and sobbed.

Custis' weight left him and he curled up on his side, covering his head with his arms. His breathing was ragged, pained, quick and shallow. His head ached. His arms ached. His whole body was humming with a rush of adrenaline and animal panic. He dared to look up at the twins: they loomed over him, faces twisted with ugly, angry snarls.

He yelped and cried out as they punched and kicked at him. He felt fists and shoes and elbows and knees connect with his back, his head, his stomach. When he tried to make himself as small as possible, a trembling ball on the floor, one of the twins (possibly Morgan, judging by how rough the hands were) slapped him and taunted him and told him not to be such a _baby_.

He knew that the twins thrived on the reactions they got out of him – Wallace had often told him that if he simply did nothing and said nothing, they would grow tired of hurting him – but he couldn't help the way he screamed and sobbed and pleaded with them. He tried to shut off his mind to the pain and terror wracking him, but it was impossible; he was saturated in it.

When they finally stopped, he was dizzy and disoriented and he couldn't _breathe_. Everything burned and ached and throbbed. He was bleeding from his lips and his nose and his forehead. He gasped and shuddered as thick fingers slid into his hair, forcing him upright. He put out his hands to brace himself as he sat up.

"I- I–" he whimpered, blinking blearily at the shadowed faces of the twins. "She was m-_mine_." He hiccupped and sobbed. "W-_why_?" he moaned, voice quivering and weak.

Custis, his face red, a vein pulsing in his forehead, smirked. "_Aww_," he mocked, "is little Treavor _heartbroken_?"

"You really are delusional if you think a delicious little morsel like _Waverly Boyle_would have anything to do with _you_," Morgan put in, grinning, showing off too many teeth.

"W-we were going to be m–" Treavor cut himself off. He couldn't even bring himself to say the word, but Custis seemed to understand enough.

He chuckled. "M-m-_married_?" he taunted coldly. He seized Treavor's chin in a tight pinch, lifting his head up. "Why would she marry _you_, you idiot? You're _pathetic_." He sneered. "You're not even a _real_ Pendleton. Did you know that? You've got _weak_ blood and I think she would sooner marry a _dog_ than _you_."

Treavor flinched and blinked through his tears. _Not even a real Pendleton_–

"You're l-lying," he mumbled, voice raw and hoarse.

Morgan chuckled, then, a low, dark rumble that sent chills up and down Treavor's spine. "No we're not," he said. "It's _true_. You're a worthless half-breed."

"One of Father's _bastards_."

"He knocked up some poor _Tyvian_ chambermaid – or was she from Morley? – and felt_compelled_ to keep you, you know."

"You're the _shame_ of our family," Morgan hissed, leering down at his younger brother. "_Everyone_ knows that you're just some worthless _mutt_, living here because of Father's_guilt_."

"The whole thing killed Mother," Custis added, frowning darkly. "She was so utterly ashamed that she had to _pretend_ like you were her son and give you space in this home and a wet nurse–"

"_Stop it_! You're _lying_!" Treavor screamed, and he lashed out and whacked Custis across the cheek. Blood from the cut in his hand smeared across the twin's cheek and nose, glistening strangely in the dim light.

Custis, in turn, grabbed Treavor's hand and squeezed his fingers until his knuckles crunched and popped. Treavor gasped and sobbed, arching in an attempt to free himself.

"Do you know what she told us, after we'd put those snakes in your crib? She told us that she wished you hadn't lived. She told us that she wished she didn't have to_masquerade_ as the caring, concerned mother for some worthless piece of _shit_. She_thanked_ us for trying to get rid of you."

His hand was going to break. Custis was going to break _all_ his fingers. He whimpered and shook his head, breathing heavily against his tears and snot and a sudden, crippling tightening in his chest. "W-_why are you telling me this?_" he mumbled, then yelped as pain jolted up his arm. "S-_stop_! I'm s-sorry I ruined your things! I-I'm _sorry_!"

His cries and his sobs and his hiccupping soon grew violent, and the crippling tightening in his chest turned into a leaden weight, pressing down on his ribs and suffocating him. He couldn't _breathe_. He tried to articulate this to the twins but he couldn't draw in any air to talk. His vision began to swim and he felt his body grow limp.

"Oh _dear_, it seems like our sweet little brother needs some air. Morgan, love, help me take him to the window."

The twins hooked one arm beneath each of his shoulders, hauled him upright, and dragged him – backwards – to the window.

Custis cursed and plucked his shirt from the latch. The blood on his skin was horrifying as his face twisted in anger once more. "You _fucking_ prick – _look_ at my clothes, lying there in the _dirt_!" he snarled, giving Treavor a sharp slap across the cheek.

"I'm s-s-_sorry_!" he rasped, body spasming in panic. He couldn't _breathe_ and he was beginning to grow faint.

Then the twins had him bent backwards out of the window and his world spun, darkly and dangerously. When his vision returned, the entirety of the Pendleton estate was upside down, and it took him a moment to realize that he _was_ hanging upside down from the window. The lanterns in the gardens were still burning, casting fuzzy haloes in the darkness. Blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy and nauseous; he could barely hold his arms at his sides and simply let them dangle, useless.

The twins clutched at his knees and thighs, hard, and slowly inched him out of the window. The sill dug into his back, making him arch and hiss.

"Feel better yet?" Morgan teased loudly.

"Maybe he needs a little _more_," Custis purred, and they gave Treavor a hard shove, sending him sliding bodily out of the window. His head dragged and thumped against the brickwork and he whimpered and cried.

"How are you feeling _now_, dearest baby brother?"

He couldn't speak. His temples were throbbing, pulsing painfully. Every cut and bruise and swollen lump on his face and his scalp and his body ached. He tried to lift himself, hands grasping desperately at empty air, and the twins shook him – threatening to drop him.

"P-p-_please_," he begged, his voice cracked and pitiful. "Please, I'm _sorry_. I-I'll clean everything up, I'll– _oh shit no!_"

The twins shook him again, a little more violently than before and Treavor felt his stomach twist and tighten in fear as gravity pulled at him. Everything inside him sloshed and shifted. His hands trembled. He craned his head, fighting against the pain, and looked up at his elder brothers. They were leaning out of the window, watching him. Grinning. The blood on Custis' face had dried in a dark streak.

"P-_please_!" he squeaked. "D-don't drop me!" He tried to lift himself again, but he was far too weak; he twisted and begged and tried to haul himself upright but his limbs were useless and he had no core strength, and he simply flopped down again and again, only succeeding in making himself dizzy and panicked.

"Stop _thrashing_, you idiot," Morgan barked.

"Help me up!" he cried in reply. "P-pull me up, _please_!"

Treavor continued to twist and dangle, and Waverly's cameo slipped out of his inner pocket and tumbled to the ground below. He let out a helpless squeal of fear and began to writhe more violently, arching and bending, trying to scrabble at the twins' hands.

"Pull me up! _Pull me up!_"

"You – damned – _mongrel_," Custis ground out, even as his hands began to slip on Treavor's weedy, hosed calves.

"Pull me up, Custis, I'm _sorry_!" he yelped.

Their tight grip slipped down his calves, clamping down over his ankles, then he was falling as they lost hold of him, their fingers tugging his shoes from his feet. He screamed and tumbled through the air, arms pinwheeling, and he could hear the twins shouting above him. The ground rushed up to meet him and he hit the garden bed with a sickening crunch. Groaning, sobbing, he curled up in on himself as pain, white-hot and unbearable, wracked his entire body.

He willed himself to pass out, but he didn't.

Above him, the twins laughed.

* * *

Treavor cowered beneath his father's enraged gaze.

"Throwing a _tantrum_ – like a _child_," Lord Pendleton hissed. "It is _unthinkable_ that my son would behave in such an unbecoming way. Are you a lordling or a _street urchin_?"

Treavor whimpered. He had stopped crying but it was a spasmodic reflex in his chest, making him hiccup and stutter. He blinked and mumbled, "I-I'm _sorry_."

The twins' shouting had aroused half the manor to the goings-on upstairs. Wallace had found him, cowering and shaking, curled up on the ground. Custis' clothing had softened the fall, somewhat, as did the sparse border of neat hedges that lined the wall. With much clucking and soothing, the manservant had scooped a sobbing Treavor Pendleton up and taken him inside.

Now he, the three Pendleton sons, Lord Pendleton, and various assorted staff were crowded in one of the downstairs parlors.

Treavor dared to raise his eyes. There, towards the back of the gawking crowd, was the maid he'd reprimanded earlier about the undrinkable wine. He flushed, darkly, and looked down at his lap where his hand, limp and numb, rested. The fall had jarred his shoulder, fractured his arm and his elbow; he could barely feel anything on his left side, where he'd hit the ground - _hard_. Wallace had immediately given him some brandy for the pain but had been unable to do anything else before Lord Pendleton had descended from his room to see just what had some of the staff in hysterics.

"We tried to warn him, Father, we really did, but he wouldn't _listen_. It's his _own_ fault, really," Custis purred from the hearth, where a warm fire glowed and crackled. He still hadn't wiped Treavor's blood off his face. "We were just mucking around."

"Be silent," Lord Pendleton snapped, rounding on his favourite sons. "_Mucking around_," he echoed, lips curling coldly, "is something _children_ do – not two nineteen-year-olds!"

Morgan scowled.

"Yes, Father," Custis muttered.

"Now go upstairs. I'm afraid you'll have to sleep in one of the guest rooms until yours can be cleaned tomorrow," their father continued, sighing. The hand which leaned upon his walking stick trembled and curled, tightly. "And I want no more shenanigans tonight, do you understand?"

"Yes," the twins said flatly, and they left, snickering to one another.

Lord Pendleton looked at his youngest son and sighed. "Higgins, how bad is it?" he asked.

Wallace, standing a little bit behind Treavor, inclined his head. "It is not broken, your lordship, thankfully, but it is badly fractured. I believe Lord Treavor's wrist might also be sprained from where he tried to stop himself–"

"Clean him up, put a sling on his arm, and send for the physician in the morning," Lord Pendleton interrupted. He sighed again and turned on his heel. "I'm going back to bed."

"Very good, my lord. Sleep well," Wallace said.

Treavor watched as his father, and his nurse, and a handful of other servants quietly filed out of the parlor. Those that lingered received a snappish remark from Wallace, and quickly skittered away.

When Treavor was alone with the manservant, he started crying and hunched in on himself. His shoulder burned; he hissed and cradled his injured elbow in his good hand against his chest. "Father thinks I'm _pathetic_," he blubbered.

"He's- concerned about you, Lord Treavor. He doesn't want to see you hurt," Wallace said. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Your father is sick, you know. This – you and your brothers fighting – can't be good for his health." He slipped an arm around Treavor's shoulders and gently stood him up.

The pair walked in silence to the servants' washroom near the kitchens, and Treavor was grateful. Upstairs, he might run into one of the twins – and after their hurtful remarks, he wasn't even sure he _belonged_ in one of the fine marbled bathrooms.

Wallace sat Treavor down on the closed lid of the toilet and dampened a washcloth beneath the tap. He dabbed, lightly, at Treavor's face, at the cuts and bruises and scrapes. Treavor winced but didn't pull away. The manservant's touch was incredibly soothing and kind, after the horror of the evening.

"They really got stuck into you, didn't they," he murmured, his brow creasing with a frown.

"I-I deserved it," Treavor mumbled in reply.

"No you didn't. You didn't deserve this, m'lord."

Treavor met Wallace's concerned gaze and then sniffled and trembled. "I- do you know what they said about me?" he whimpered.

Wallace set to work gently unbuttoning his master's waistcoat and shirt, so that he could examine the bruises and lumps peppering his skinny frame. "What did they say, m'lord?"

Treavor blushed as Wallace poked and prodded. His ribcage burned and he hissed and twisted away from the manservant's touch, only to be met with a hot stab of pain in his back. "T-they said that I'm not- I'm not a _real Pendleton_," he choked out through gasps and dry-sobs. "They said I-I'm a _bastard_. Some _mongrel_ that a maid left on this doorstep and Father only took me in because h-he felt _sorry _for me."

Wallace's face froze and he crouched before the lordling. "Nonsense," he murmured, shaking his head. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Nobody deserves the name 'Pendleton' more than you, m'lord. You are your father's son, through and through. I wouldn't serve you otherwise."

Treavor tried to catch flashes of dishonesty in the manservant's face. Wallace would never lie to him – Wallace _had_ never lied to him – but how could he be so sure, after what Wallace said about Waverly? Wallace had said that Waverly would like the cameo, that she would be impressed with him–

And now here he was, broken and bruised and _hurt_.

"I s-saw them together – Waverly and Custis. And Waverly and Morgan. S-she–" A fresh wave of crying wracked him and he had to resist every urge to lean into Wallace and cry against the manservant's chest. Instead he bowed his head and focused on his fingers, cold and numb and thin. "S-she _hurt_ me, Wallace. She- she _made a fool out of me_."

Wallace reached out and gently lifted his master's face. "I know she did, m'lord. And I'm sorry," he murmured.

Blinking through tears, Treavor nodded, weakly. "Get me another glass of brandy, please. My arm- it _hurts_."

"Of course, m'lord." Wallace excused himself to the kitchens and returned with a small glassful of sweet brandy.

Treavor downed it with a sharp tip of his head, and hissed as it burned in the back of his throat. It numbed him, somewhat, as Wallace gently pressed on his elbow and his arm and his shoulder, trying to determine where the fractures were.

As Wallace bound his arm in a tight sling, he said, "It's a shame about your clothes, m'lord. I shall take them to the tailor tomorrow and see if he can repair them. I don't believe the hose is salvageable but perhaps your frockcoat – the sleeve just needs to be sewn…"

Treavor nodded limply.

Then, a scowl creased his brow. "Wallace, did you find that cameo in the garden bed? It fell from my pocket when they- when they had me hanging out of the window."

Wallace nodded. "I did, m'lord. Tomorrow, would you like to drive over to the Boyle estate so that you can–"

"No," Treavor interrupted sharply. He lightly fingered his elbow through the thin fabric of the sling. It ached and he bit down on a groan. "No," he repeated. "Just get rid of it."

"M'lord…?"

"_Get rid of it_," Treavor spat in a low hiss, teeth flashing as he snarled. "Smash it. Bury it. Throw it in the river. I don't care." He frowned, darkly, and hunched his shoulders, as though bracing against a blow. "I don't want to have anything to do with Waverly Boyle ever again."


End file.
